Avengers

01/31/2013

Captain Marvel is a woman of bold moves. She stares alien war machines in the laserific eye and doesn't flinch; nay, she flies, fist first, straight into the cornea. Or whatever the eyeball equivalent of the heart is.

Inspired by her, and desperate to get a post up after the loss of my laptop last week (my laptop containing 3/4 of a post about Captain Marvel), I writ bold, transferring content from my brain to the Typepad page without first drafting in Word. I am Moses carving straight into the table without consulting his papyrus draft; Jefferson quilling the declaration while tossing the note-bearing parchments of his compatriots into the fire.

I am Captain Marvel! I wish.

Supergirl and I weren't getting along when one Foz, comic book aficionado and friend of super-sheep Alfie Purl, suggested Captain Marvel. I twitched a bit. I started this journey with DC, and while I knew I was breaking up with Supergirl right after the prom, I had planned to find another DC girlfriend to join the cast of Big Comic Love. Next visit to Harrison's, I allowed my eyes to wander from DC's glossy covers to Marvel's matte ranks.

I need to note, Marvel's matte ranks are woefully man-centric. There are women-led books, including Red She-Hulk, but based on my quarter-assed eyeball-conducted research, DC offers more female-led titles. (A quick research break backs up the eyeballs: As of November, DC had nine women-led titles, while Marvel had roughly half that number.)

Having said that, Captain Marvel is a heroine for the ages. What a fantastic read. First off, the covers are brilliant, Captain Marvel adopting a variety of strong-woman poses across a series of covers that read as a propaganda campaign a la Rosie the Riveter. In fact, Captain Marvel strikes a Rosie posie on cover #2.

The nod's heavy; the books are full of imagined 20th-century aviatrices, from the all-female Air Service Pilots Banshee Squad fighting on a mysterious and remote Peruvian island during WWII to a fearless woman pilot trying to break altitude records.

Into the stories of these faux-historic women, the tale of Boston-bred Carol Danvers weaves seamlessly in a genre where narrative implausibility is mundane. Carol's an aspiring Air Force pilot who eventually winds up, in true Marvel fashion, the victim of an otherworldly explosion. Shards of space tech turn her mighty; she becomes the superheroine Ms. Marvel and eventually joins the Avengers.

The first issue of the Captain Marvel series, which hit Harrison's last summer, features some blatant stage-setting. Captain America, Spidey and Ms. Marvel jabber about her new outfit, her new hairdo (a Farrah Fauxhawk that disappears by issue 5), and whether she should accept the mantel of Captain Marvel. I found the issue overly but helpfully didactic, and full of the flip jabber that the Avengers can't seem to communicate without.

(I'm a fan of flip jabber, don't get me wrong. But while a well-placed moment of superhero snark in the face of a villain produces catch-phrases I'll cheer for and remember, a movie full of nothing but flippery is gone from my head before I've picked the popcorn kernels from my teeth.)

But by issue #1's end, Carol's on her way to time-traveling adventure with strong, realistic female characters I found interesting me far more than some of the folks I've met over at DC. I'm not sure quite how to explain it, but this story smacked genuine to me. Somehow, Captain Marvel was a human superhero having super adventures. I never forgot she was human.

Sure, she stands apart, as all superheroes must, but somehow she's human about it. I'm not nodding at all to any inferred soft feminine traits; I simply mean, I sunk into these books the way I sink into a great novel.

I forgot I was reading a comic book, and I mean that in the very best sense. Thanks Captain Marvel, and thank you Foz!

07/11/2012

The Amazing Spider-Man was no more or less clever or original than the much-laudedAvengers, but I liked it far better. Not because the story surprised me more, or the quips amused me more, or the cheesy bits melted my heart more, but because I cared about Peter Parker more than I cared about any of the characters in The Avengers.

The Avengers had kabooming action to spare, but little in the way of character development or personally focused story lines. These things were beside the point: The Avengers celebrates its superheroes super-ness; it’s not overly devoted to their alter-egos. Plus there are so many main characters, once you give each of them a few cool action sequences, five or six long stretches of chops-displaying dialogue, and a big old let’s-conquer-our-differences-and-work-as-a-team finale, you’re two hours in with, at most, a coupla Ironman quips to spare.

But aside from the opening Black Widow scene, which I appreciated as a signature Joss Whedon strong-woman moment, I barely remember the movie. I remember thinking the big Hulk reveal was far less of a big Hulk reveal than I expected (I mean, I’m angry most of the time too), and beyond that – some people zipping around some places and zapping some other people.

Spidey necessarily was going to give me more of the personal storyline it turns out I crave. (Why did I not know this about myself? Also, am I a gender stereotype here or what? Personal Drama > Heroics + Spectacle.) I knew the storyline, I’ve seen past Spideys, but I still enjoyed it, in large part because I appreciated Marc Webb’s/Andrew Garfield’s take on Peter Parker. I found him more empathetic/less clichéd than Tobey Maguire’s by-the-book, pushing-glasses-up-the-nose-bridge nerdly Peter Parker.

I liked Garfield start to finish, and I loved him in the scene where he discovers the full scope of his Spidey powers. Completely exhilarated, he swoops and glides and swings and climbs around a construction site. He seemed full of pure joy, and watching the scene filled me with the same.

I didn’t buy Jed Bartlett as Uncle Ben, though I liked the way Webb handled the relationship, which seemed slightly more believable and stronger than past Spideys. And who doesn’t love Gidget? Except Sally Field’s face has melted. She didn’t look old; she looked melted. I couldn’t figure out what was going on. Plastic surgery gone bad? Strange makeup? Instead of listening to her words, I found myself pondering her facial features.

The intrigue surrounding Papa Parker may well be a step beyond solid. We’ll find out next time, as @harbordove and I learned when we saw the little teasey bit at the end. Thank you man-gaggle in the back of the theater; without your hyper-focus on the credits, we would have headed straight for the powder room and missed the Easter Egg.

06/06/2012

Whoo-eee! Have I mentioned great reads? I picked up the Night of the Owls books on a whim and ended up in love with Batman. The books, not the guy. Bruce Wayne, he of the chiseled jaw, is still too broody and intense for a flibbertigibbit such as myself. But these books are great reads, and I’m thinking he deserves all the attention he gets. Rather, his writers and artists do.

And really, that’s the point of this ramble. These folks are amazing. Comic books get a crap rap among some snobby people such as my pre-Batmom self, who wouldn’t deign to read such low-brow pop culture until I started to read such low-brow pop culture and discovered that it’s lovingly crafted brilliance created by incredibly clever, blow-your-mind artistic people.

Clever, creative, blow-your-mind AND often underpaid and sometimes even stiffed.

Remember comic book artist Jack Kirby? His incredible resume includes rejuvenating Hulk, co-creating Captain America (with Joe Simon), and launching the Avengers (first issue to the right). His estate doesn’t receive a dime from the recent blockbuster, which as of Monday had taken in more than $500 million.

“Told with ruthless psychological realism, in fugal, overlapping plotlines and gorgeous, cinematic panels rich with repeating motifs, Watchmen is a heart-pounding, heartbreaking read and a watershed in the evolution of a young medium.”

The guys that created “Watchmen,” Dave Gibbons and Alan Moore, signed a deal with DC whereby the rights over “Watchmen” reverted to them once the book was out of print. The book has never gone out of print, which is awesome but also upsets Alan Moore, who has effectively lost ownership of his creations by the very dint of their popularity.

Moore objects to DC’s creation of “Before Watchmen.” Partly in solidarity and also as a protest in general over the big guys’ treatment of their talent (big guys = DC and Marvel), several comic book artists have stopped working with the big guys.

I’m not here to make an argument in favor of Moore. His “Watchmen” partner Gibbons is fine with the new versions of his beloved creations. Original “Watchmen” editor Len Wein is editing “Before Watchment.” Brian Azzarello, writer of my beloved “Wonder Woman,” is participating in the new project, and I’m interested in reading anything he’s writing. Plus, comic books are like jazz; where would either be without the riffing on beloved standards?

I’m also not here to make an argument against the big guys. I love my DC Comics. Having said that, I know that it’s not the head honchos at DC who are creating my great reads. It’s the writers and artists. They should be fairly treated and robustly compensated for sharing their art with the rest of us.

I’m going to end with a list of everyone receiving cover credits for the Night of the Owls books I’m writing about this week. Because they are the golden geese. (Goose, rather. One goose. Many ganders.) And they rightfully deserve a golden egg or 10.